


Damaged

by Anonymous



Series: Damaged [1]
Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: Aviophobia, Depression, Homophobic Slurs, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Self Loathing, in-character ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan hated himself completely and utterly. In his own eyes he was the most loathsome worm on the wretched planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I hate myself

Dan hated himself completely and utterly. In his own eyes he was the most loathsome worm on the wretched planet. He was worse than the idiots who tormented him with their inane chatter and self congratulatory piss-wank that he ridiculed daily. At least they were consistent. He on the other hand would piss on his own doorstep to make a point and still let Jonatton Yeah? humiliate him with the drooling fodder he would have him write for the dayglow dimwits. He was Jonatton's media whore.

In a way he was Jones' whore too. He never paid the DJ anything for staying at his place, never repaid any of the loans of tenners Jones would press into his hand. 

He liked fucking Jones but he sometimes wondered if it wasn't compensation he was giving. If Jones' wasn't being a wide-eyed innocent but paying him for services rendered.

The worst part was Jones never called him on anything, he was quick to forgive anything. So Dan tested him: he hung around with the Sugar Ape idiots at the Nailgun Arms while Jones sat by himself, introduced him to his sister by saying, "Oh yeah Jones lives here too." He'd worn that stupid get up on stage with Nathan fucking Barley for fuck's sake and he'd hated himself for it, but Jones always let him off, which made him hate himself more.

Claire was a breath of fresh air in that respect. If she gave him money, she would hound him under he paid back to the pence what he'd borrowed. She wasn't afraid to tell him exactly what he was becoming to shame him into trying harder. Well she tried, bless her. He needed that slap in the face and his baby sister was the only one who'd give it to him.

He was eating a prehistoric piece of pizza he'd found down the back of the sofa when Jones tried to take him out to dinner. Like a sodding date of something, as if they were eighteen year old sweethearts rather than a self-loathing, prematurely ageing prick and his gorgeous occasional fuck buddy.

"Come on, you ain't eaten properly in days," Jones whined while jiggling from foot to foot. Advice about healthy living was pretty fucking rich coming from him. "We don't need to go to some up itself place. Anywhere you like," he pleaded.

"I'm not your kept man!" Dan shouted at him, as if that weren't the most ridiculous and Harlequin-novelesque thing he had ever said in his life, and stormed off, leaving the half eaten stale pizza behind him.

Then he went to a greasy spoon down the road and let Nathan fucking Barley buy him a meal. And hated himself.

When Claire was gone some nights (he didn't want to know where, not after that first time) they would creep into the bed and fuck slowly, taking advantage of the extra space to spread out and try different angles and rhythms. In the circle of Jones' sweaty arms he would sometimes forget to hate himself for a while and just get lost in him. Sometimes it would come rushing back after he'd ejaculated violently into Jones' hole, mouth, stomach, hair.

Other times it would sneak up on him when he was still hazy and post-coital and Jones was snuggling up to his side.  _Do you really think you deserve him?_  he doesn't mind me  _How long can it last before he finds someone decent who treats him right?_  he chose me, he said he wanted me  _Grow up Ashcroft. He's made of sunshine and music. You think he'll stay with a shitmonger like you once the novelty's worn off? Once you're not the mysterious older man any more but some old fart who mooches off him?_  I don't deserve him. He'll leave me. He'll kick me out.  _Yes._  Yes.

"Wassamaer?" Jones mumbled against shoulder, "Go a 'leep."

"Yeah. G'night."

He'd stay up most of the night, but fall asleep eventually, because he'd wake up to Jones with two cups of coffee and clean sheets so they could make the bed before Claire came back from wherever she was. There would be a dull empty feeling in the pit of his stomach and he'd try to smile for Jones.

"Want to share the hot water?" Jones would ask.

It would be a practical suggestion rather than a seductive one—they both would stink of their nocturnal exertions and there was never enough hot water for two consecutive showers in the morning.

"Yeah alright," he'd say half-heartedly.

They'd climb into the ancient tub and Jones would wash him gently, like a child. Soaping him with his soft cold hands and squeezing sponges of warm water over him. Then he would wash himself quickly and businesslike before washing Dan's hair. Claire always wondered why Dan's hair always looked so nice whenever she'd spent the night out.

"Why am I here Jones?"

"Is this to do with quantum?"

"No why am I here in your bath, in your flat, with you"

"I want you here, don't I? Don't be a pillock"

"Why do you want me. I'm all broken"

Jones kissed him sweetly.

"I like to play with broken toys," he said softly.

Well maybe it wasn't a fairy tale, but it would do for now.


	2. I'm broken

In Dan's experience there were three kinds of people who had toy collections. One: the desperately earnest anorak-type who spent ridiculous amounts of money on collectables. Two: Idiots who claimed they were making a "post modernist ironic statement, yeah?" and spent spent a ridiculous amount of money on making it. And Jones.

Jones was neither type one or type two, he just genuinely liked playing with his dollies. He bought, or rescued as he put it, these pathetic looking things at car boot sales and charity shops with dodgy safety scissor haircuts and missing limbs, usually for about twenty pence.

Then he'd take them home and brush their hair and make them little outfits out of fabric off-cuts he'd produce from somewhere. They kept him company next to his decks and he always brought some out gigging with him (they were on a rota so none of them would feel left out). A neon bracelet bedecked teeny bopper had tried to steal one of his mangled My Little Ponies as a souvenir once and he'd gone ape shit.

The shiny new toys in shops and mint collectables on eBay held no interest for him whatsoever. His toys had all been loved and hurt by scores of owners before him and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"I like toys that need someone to love them," he'd said once, looking up from a sex addicts anonymous meeting he was holding for his Barbies.

He had adopted Dan whole heartedly, like a homeless one-legged china doll with a raggedy dress, when he was thrown out of his flat. Took him home and took care of him insofar as Dan would let him.

"Stop with me for a bit," he smiled bouncing up and down on the heels of his feet.

"If I do that, I'll probably never leave," sighed Dan. It would be too easy to get complacent if he was staying with Jones.

"So I get to keep you? Genius!"

Alright maybe the man had lost ten flatmates in four years, but if you could put up with the constant music from his decks, he was the easiest person to live with in the world. And Dan was fine with the music.

The night he'd met Jones he was reviewing some new club that was supposed to be the last word in cool and after interviewing DJ Jones he'd fallen asleep on one of the plush sofas next to the dance floor. Jones had finished his set early—which he wouldn't do for love nor money normally—bundled the somnolent Ashcroft into a taxi, took him home and tucked him into his bed. Then he wandered off to the living room to mix for several hours. He never got paid for that gig and Dan never wrote the review.

When Dan woke up he thought he was still in the club and then realised that night clubs generally speaking didn't have beds. He spent the next in quiet contemplation wondering where the fuck he was. With some trepidation he got out of the bed and walked to the door. The DJ from the last night was mixing furiously with intense concentration. 

He looked up and saw Dan and beamed at him, "A'RIGHT?" he called over the music, "THIS IS THE BEST BIT!" Dan stood stock still in the doorway. Did he sleep with him? Did he? Fuck, he hadn't a clue. After an hour or so Jones wound down and walked over to Dan.

"You ok then, mate?" he asked, baring his teeth in a somewhat feral smile.

"Did I fuck you last night?" asked Dan bluntly

"Naw, why d'you say that?" replied Jones, seemingly not taken aback by the question at all.

"Did you fuck me?" Dan continued.

"You're well weird, mister!" Jones giggled, "You were out for the count and I thought I better get you some place safe. You get all sorts these days. Didn't know where yours was so I took ya to mine." Aside from being vaguely flattered that this strange man had thought to take care of him, Dan didn't know exactly what to think about this.

"I was in your bed?" He said, "Sorry about that."

"Oh don't worry, I've not been to bed for three days or so, I'm not going to sleep for another coupla days anyway." That explained some of the mania that seemed to emanate from him.

"Right. Well. I'll be going," said Dan awkwardly. Jones leapt into the air and scrabbled around behind his equipment, startling Dan. He returned with a felt tip pen and a scrap of paper. He scrawled his number on it and held it out. Dan took it gingerly.

"Thanks...."

"Jones."

"Right. I'll just-"

"Can I get yours?" Jones said quickly and blushed.

Dan nodded slowly and went to look in his pockets for a receipt to write on. Jones stuck out his arm and Dan carefully wrote his full address, email and both numbers on the skinny appendage.

"See you around," he said to the ground and made a move toward the door. Jones hugged him suddenly and kissed his cheek.

"Call me, yeah?" he said and scurried back to his decks.

They had been friends for a few months when Dan had been evicted for failure to pay rent and pretending he had multiple personality disorder to avoid paying the rent (this had worked surprisingly well for a while, but it was only a matter of time before it all went tits up). Jones' offer of a place to stay was the best he could hope for, for the time being. He pretended to entertain notions of getting a new place, but deep down knew that he was with Jones for the long haul.

Jones was very tactile and had no sense of boundaries. He followed Dan around cuddling him and petting him at random intervals. Dan was more bothered by how little this bothered him than anything else. He was so bitter and disenchanted with the world and humanity, but it was just nice having a warm body press against his and clever fingers fiddle with his hair. Jones made the bullshit temporarily evaporate with his sweet sincerity. He filled up all the chinks and fractures in Dan's malnourished soul with stop-gap bliss.

As time went on, Dan needed more and more of Jones to make the hurt go away. Touches became kisses to his temples and cheek, which became pecks on the lips and full-blown snogging. It was only a matter of time before sex was the only way to get a good Jones fix, but that made him feel guilty and ashamed, thinking he was using him. He'd tried to explain it to Jones who had found his logic very bizarre.

"You want to stop shagging because it makes you feel good. You're not joining some sort of cult are you?"

In the end it was too difficult to explain and he just surrendered to his unhealthy fixation on his flatmate. That which you cannot cure, you must endure. Which was an odd proverb to be used in reference to toe curling sex.

When Claire moved in it became harder to have time alone with Jones and they had to satisfy themselves with quickies before she woke up and hand jobs in the kitchen. They only got to do it properly when she was out of the house and then Dan spent too much of the time trying not to think about where she was to get into it.

So Dan looked more like a marionette with a few key strings cut as time passed and Nathan piss-midget Barley insinuated himself further into his life. He felt bits of his soul breaking off and falling away daily. The world was a pointless and bleak place where no one appreciated anything any more and no one had an opinion that they hadn't plagiarised and carefully edited from someone else. He couldn't cope with the Idiots anymore. He couldn't satisfy himself with ignoring them. It was becoming harder and harder to write anything that he wasn't deeply ashamed of and he had to do it more often.

When they were alone Jones would try to clean him and feed him and take him out but Dan was growing less receptive to the magic Jones used to wreak on him. It never crossed Jones' mind to pack it all in with Dan and try again with someone marginally saner. He like to play with broken toys, because they were the ones who needed him the most.


	3. This isn't about you at all

Claire turned away from the door and jumped when she saw Jones sitting by himself behind his decks in the darkened flat.

"Jones! You scared me, I thought you were out. I didn't hear the music when...." she trailed off weakly.

Jones gave her a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Can't work," he said simply, "I feel strange."

Claire looked at her feet awkwardly. She made to go into the bedroom but Jones' voice stopped her in her tracks,

"Dan... did I do something to upset him? I mean he's been gone for a while now and he's not said anything to me. I mean I not his minder or anything but I thought that, I thought-" Claire was shocked to see a tear spill out of the DJ's eye.

"Dan's in the hospital," she said suddenly realising that no one had thought to tell Jones, "He... had an accident," she continued slowly.

Jones' eyes went so wide that she could see the whites all around his irises. No one had told him. No one thought that he cared one way or the other about the grouchy bastard that kipped on his sofa. No one thought he cared about anything more than making as much sound for as long as was humanly possible. Apparently they had been wrong.

"What?" he asked in a small voice.

Claire shifted her weight from one side to the other and looked at her feet.

"He jumped out a window," she said, wishing that it didn't have to be her saying this. Wishing that no one had to say it because it hadn't happened. But it had.

Jones went very quiet and seemed to fold in on himself before dissolving into sobs that shook his entire body. Claire had never cared for Jones, but in that moment she wanted nothing more than to hold him and let him cry. Something in his patheticness stirred some long dormant maternal instinct in her.

Instead she offered him a tissue and wrote down the name of the hospital and Dan's room number and left the room quietly.

*

He wasn't used to being about at this hour of the day. Twelve in the morning, who's together by then? Still it's not as though he'd been doing much except sitting around feeling sorry for himself and sleeping recently. He looked at the bunch of flowers in his hand. What a stupid idea. He had some vague idea that you brought people flowers when they were sick, but presenting Dan with a bouquet wasn't exactly their style. Too late to do anything about it now. Maybe balloons would have been slightly less soppy.

He knocked on the door and went in slowly. Dan looked pale and somehow smaller, on that bed with all those wires sticking out of him.

"Alright?" he asked, his voice cracking on the second syllable.

Dan turned in his direction and looked through him. Jones almost ran to the bed and dumped the flowers unceremoniously on the bedside cabinet. Dan lifted a hand and batted at Jones' tee shirt weakly.

"They didn't tell me," Jones said with a sob that he tried to pass it off as a laugh, "I thought I'd done something wrong, or you were tired of me, or something better had come along, or, or-"

Jones stopped talking abruptly and covered his mouth with the back of his hand, "Why'd you do it, Dan? Why didn't you talk to me? I didn't know it had gotten this bad. When you get out of here, just leave fucking Sugar Ape, let me take care of you. You can write what you like, you don't need them. Just let me take care of you." He broke off again and started crying silently.

Dan studied his face. Jones sat bent double with tears dripping off his nose and splashing onto the hospital issue blanket.

"It wasn't anything to do with you, Jones," Dan said in a voice that he hadn't used since he'd been here.

He wasn't even sure if Jones wasn't just a dream. He still felt the pain, but he always felt the pain. Even drugged up to the eyeballs and in his sleep. Jones looked up angrily.

"Not to do with me? You're in the fucking hospital for fuck knows how long and no one even bothered to tell me. Do you know how that makes me feel? Do you even fucking care, Ashcroft?"

He hadn't meant it like that. He just wanted to let him know he wasn't angry with him, he could never get tired of him, there was no one better in the whole world.

"No," he whispered hoarsely, "It was Barley. He-"

Jones let out an ironic laugh and threw his head back.

"Barley, yeah. For someone you're supposed to hate, you seem to hang around him a lot." His face went momentary hard and distant before crumbling again.

'Fuck it, Dan I-" his mouth formed what might have been an l when he stopped himself.

"You're important Dan. You matter. I just wish I mattered to you." He kissed Dan's cheek and left the ward.

Dan lay and touched his cheek where Jones' lips had touched him. When he drew them back he was surprised to see them glittering with tears in the harsh hospital lighting.


	4. I want you to hate me

It was painfully ironic. He'd wanted Jones to hate him for so many other things that he did wrong. Betraying his principles daily at work, ignoring him and just generally acting like a bastard. Jones forgave him for things that any one would, and probably should, have taken issue with, without batting an eyelash. But now, in an unprecedented first, Jones had decided to get offended by something. Something that existed only in his own imagination, no less.

Jones thought he didn't care about him. That he didn't matter to him. To be fair to him, it would be easy to arrive at this conclusion, as Dan was uncommunicative at best and a sullen prick at worst.

No one had told Jones that he was in the hospital and he had been left thinking that Dan had just left him. Why would they tell him anything? No one else knew that they were... what ever it was that they were. They had no way of knowing that Jones would indeed care either way if Dan lived or died.

When Claire had come to stay with them Dan had told him that she didn't know that he was the way he was. He was so far in the closet that he couldn't even call himself gay out loud. Not that he was homophobic, he just didn't want any of the stereotypical bullshit that came with the label. He didn't want anyone wondering who was the "man" and the "woman" in the relationship (they were both men. That was sort of the point.) or people tip toeing around him with PC terms as if he gave a shit.

Jones had seemed all right with it at first, though he did make jokes about wrecking his back fucking on a couch and wondered aloud if he would ever tell Claire that they were together so they could at least get part shares in the bed.

It was cruel and unkind to Jones, keeping the whole thing under wraps the way he did. He wasn't ashamed of having a relationship with a man, he was ashamed of the way the world would look at them after he came out and in a perverse way had wanted to protect Jones from the ignorance of the world.

_"So, say you get a plus one to a wedding and you had a boyfriend," Jones asked, one lazy Saturday morning in bed, looking steadfastly at the wall, "you'd still go alone or take some woman you knew?"_

_"I don't want people making assumptions about me." Dan said, "Anyway I don't have a boyfriend do I?" He meant the last part as a sarcastic aside, but it came out more like a genuine question._

_"I dunno, do you?" Jones asked, looking him straight in the face, his blue eyes burning holes in Dan's brown ones._

_"Look, I don't want people to look at you and think you're my bit of stuff," said Dan, dropping the polite fiction that the hypothetical boyfriend was not in fact Jones._

_Jones screwed up his face and hit Dan with a pillow._

_"Your bit of stuff! Get lost, you're my bit of stuff," he giggled and attacked Dan's neck with his teeth and tongue._

The fact remained that had he been upfront about himself, Jones would not have had to wait two weeks before he found out from Claire what had happened. Jones might have been all right before, but now everything had changed. He thought that Dan didn't consider him important enough to be included in his life, that he wasn't good enough in Dan's eyes. 

The exact opposite was true. Dan thought Jones was too special to be included in the shit and mire that was the rest of his life. Unfair? Yes. It was never good to put someone on a pedestal. Especially, when they were led to believe you thought they weren't good enough for them because of it.

Claire stormed in and sat down in the chair beside the hospital bed heavily.

"What the fuck, Dan? I swear, I can't wait for you to get better so I can put you in here again myself!" she was fiddling with a box of cigarettes, scowling at the 'Thank you for not smoking' notice on the opposite wall.

"Did you honestly think I'd mind? I can't believe you can be so  _selfish!_ "

"Hello, Claire," Dan said weakly, propped up in bed with pillows.

"Don't 'Hello, Claire' me," Claire snapped, "What were you thinking," she continued in a hiss.

Dan looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about or is it a game where I guess and you shout at me if I get it wrong?"

Claire fixed him with a firm gaze.

"What is Jones, Dan?" she asked, "Because I know he's not just some mate that lets you stay with him rent-free."

Dan looked steadfastly at a patch on the wall to the right of his sister's head.

"Well? Dan, I don't care if you're gay or bisexual or whatever, but there is no excuse for the way you've treated Jones." She continued to give him her most school teacherly glare.

"He's... we're... We haven't talked about it," he said, which was half-true.

"Dan, you are a complete idiot," Claire gasped at blew her nose noisily. She left the hospital ward rubbing her eyes. Everyone was doing that lately.


	5. I hate you, you bitch

Nathan Barley swaggered into the Trashbat offices adjusting his crotch. Pingu looked up at him nervously and then darted his eyes over to where Jones was sitting.

"DJ Jones!" he called out enthusiastically, miming a turntable, while bleating some generic beat. "What's the fucking occasion? If you came for the job about the soundtrack, don't worry mate, I'm mostly doing it myself, but I'll always need an assistant," he went on, grinning stupidly.

"Actually, I'm here to sue you," said Jones with his fists clenched in his pockets.

Nathan blinked at him and then that ridiculous clown smile spread back over his bloated, hateful face.

"Good one," he sniggered, "Seriously though, I'll need someone to do, y'know, most of the technical side of things and shit while I'm focusing on the-"

"Dan was off his head on pain medication and severely concussed when you shoved that release form under his nose. He didn't recognise his own sister. I doubt that the legality of that signature will stand up in court," Jones went on in a tight little voice, "Even if it doesn't, I'll drag this thing out and bleed that fuckin' trust fund of yours dry in legal fees."

The clown grin turned into a sneer.

"Oh yeah?" Nathan said, "Well what if I'm not going to let you fuck with my creative vision, queer-boy?" he went on, shoving Jones in the chest.

Jones looked down at his body and then back at Nathan, with a look of cold fury in his eyes. One second Nathan was staring arrogantly at Jones and the next the room wheeled around, and he was looking at the ceiling. Pain burst across his face and bright spots danced in front of his eyes, as he looked back up at Jones, clustering around him like a techno Lucifer.

"Self defence," said Jones calmly. He was leaning over Nathan's prone body and his many necklaces were dangling and catching the sunlight.

"Just so you know, Pingu actually gave me the tape and the papers, before you came in. Lovely obliging lad you've got there. You can try and get them back, legal like, but you'll just look like another sell out reality tv twunt, and I'll break my peace with every fucking bog roll tabloid that'll have me. You're a shithead, Barley, but you want people to think you're not. And that's why you're going to let me leave now."

With that he straightened his back and turned to walk out the door. Nathan stared blankly after him and pulled himself into a sitting position on the floor.

"What the fuck are you on, you spazz?" he tuned and yelled at Pingu, a vein popping in his head.

Pingu looked at the floor two feet away from Nathan.

"He would've gotten them eventually, and Dan doesn't deserve what you were going to do to him. He's a dickhead, but he didn't deserve that. And I did say I'd get you back some day."

Pingu stood up shakily and pulled his coat off his chair and left the Trashbat building for the last time. He didn't take any of his work with him, even though it was his all own and Nathan had no right to it. He didn't want to take anything with him from that place. He'd get a proper job with a pension, a water cooler and a boss who didn't fucking torture him for his own demented pleasure.

*

Jones whirled into House of Jones like a well accessorized tornado and lit a cigarette. He barely smoked, but even thinking about Barley for any extended period of time left him itching for a nicotine fix. Talking to him left him ready to smoke a Cuban tobacco harvest.

He flicked his lighter on and off several times, before holding pulling the release form he'd sweet talked out of Pingu (which hadn't been all that hard, the boy was desperate to fuck Barley over) out from the front of his shirt, where he'd stuffed it earlier.

With a grim look on his face, he flicked the lighter on again and watched the papers catch light. He was so intent on the flames, he forgot to let go and burnt his fingers. Dropping the last burning shred of paper and stamping on in, he stuck his fingers into his mouth.

With his other hand, he pulled out the small tape from his back pocket. He'd watched Pingu delete all the digital copies Barley had. This was the last physical thing tying Dan to Nathan. He threw it on the ground and jumped on it, delighting in the crunch of the plastic shattering under his weight. After twenty minutes of this, he carefully unrolled the tape and cut it into tiny pieces with a pair of safety scissors.

He stood panting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by ashes and particles of plastic, paper and tiny confetti-like piece of tape.

He became aware of a dull throb in his hand and looked down at his blistered fingers. He'd already split his knuckles open on his other hand, hitting Nathan's stupid face in, and chewed half the skin from his cuticles with worrying over Dan. His hands looked like shit. Dan used to call his hands pretty when they were fucking and any romanticism could be blamed on the endorphins and he'd kiss them when he thought Jones was sleeping.

Not that Dan was sleeping with him for his hands, but still.

He sat down heavily, on the floor, and laughed. He laughed until there were tears running down his face, and his lungs were burning, and he didn't even know if he was laughing or crying.

Fours hours later, Claire came through the door and walked straight towards him.

"Pingu told me," she said simply and helped him up.

Jones nodded and allowed Claire to bandage his hands and clean up the mess he'd made.

"Dan cares about you," she said quietly, standing up holding a long-disused dustpan and brush, "He hates his life and his job and almost everyone else in the world," she drew in a shaky breath, "But you're special to him and that means you're special to me too. I love him more than I'll ever tell him, and you make him a little less fucked-up. Don't let yourself get hurt like that again, Jones." she walked into the kitchen slowly, cradling the dustpan like a child.

Jones rubbed his cheeks with his sleeves. He was always crying these days, he felt like such a new age "experience your inner child" twat.

Claire re-emerged from the kitchen, wiping her own eyes.

"I'm going to see him again today. You should come with me," she said holding out her hand.

Jones nodded slowly and shuffled next to her. Claire suddenly burst into tears and buried her head in his chest, thumping his shoulder weakly. He put his arms around her and gave her a little squeeze. She took a few deep breaths and stayed still in his embrace for a few minutes. 

She looked up at him with wet eyes and said, "We should go now. Bus'll be gone in ten minutes."

They left the flat, clutching each other around the waist, and walked briskly towards the bus stop.

When they walked into the clean white hospital room Dan looked up. He seemed confused to see them together, but didn't remark on it. When they were standing on either side of his bed, his eyes flicked to Jones' hands and he took them gently.

"You're hurt," he said.

"I'm fine," Jones replied in a whisper.

Wordlessly Dan rubbed his thumbs lightly over Jones' bandaged hands and raised them to his lips. He looked Jones in the eyes.

"You have to look after yourself," he said and Jones laughed quietly at the irony.

"Says the man in the hospital bed," Jones said.

"It makes me sad when you're hurting," said Dan quietly.

Jones sat down in the chair beside his and laid his head down next to Dan, who petted his hair. Claire leaned down and kissed her brother on the cheek.

"What was that for?" he said, looking at her for the first time since she came in.

"I'm just glad you're getting better," she replied.


	6. Chapter 6

Dan came home to two packed bags by the door. Opening one of them he saw one of his shirts folded neatly on the top. He zipped it up quietly and left the flat.

Three hours later he felt his he felt his mobile vibrate from his pocket. He took it out with a sigh and saw Jones' name lighting up the tiny screen. He put it back into his pocket without answering it. Twenty minutes later, Jones walked through the door and walked towards him.

"Did I do something?" he asked with his arms folded.

Dan snorted into his pint.

"I might ask you the same thing," he replied sarcastically.

"You what?"

"If you wanted me gone, you could have just said something. I'm a big boy, I can take it," he said and turned away from Jones.

An insistent hand pulled him back around.

"What are you talking about, you muppet?" asked Jones.

"You packed bags for me by the door. I get the message, now let me drink myself into a stupor in peace." Dan scowled at him and Jones felt his heart melt.

"You complete idiot. I've got a gig in Hamburg this weekend, I want you to come with me. I thought if I packed your bags for you you'd think it would be less hassle just going rather than unpacking all your stuff."

Dan looked at him for ten seconds in complete silence before blinking.

"Why would I want you gone? You're my Dan." Jones eyes looked slightly glassy.

"Alright, don't cry," Dan said gruffly, "Come here, you daft man."

"You're crying too," Jones said shakily.

"Am not," Dan protested as a tear splashed on the bar.

Jones shuffled closer to him and Dan wrapped an arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze. They were both aware of several pairs of eyes staring at them.

"People are looking," Jones said quietly to the greasy wooden bar.

"Let them look," Dan told his pint fervently before swivelling around and kissing Jones briefly on the lips.

Jones touched his lips in slight disbelief and Dan blushed. A drunken jeer came from the other end of the pub. Jones spun around furiously.

"Fuck you, Ned! I'll fucking snap you like a twiglet. I was having a  _moment_ , you prick!"

Dan chuckled softly, before Jones grabbed his face and kissed him with incredible ferocity. Dan allowed himself to be dominated by the smaller man and put his hands lightly on his hips. The barman cleared his throat loudly and Jones broke the kiss to look at him in irritation.

"I hear honey and lemons good for that," he said sarcastically, "Come on Dan, lets go and have fantastic sex in all the rooms in the house. Including the stairs." Without another word he stalked out the door leaving Dan to follow him, giving a two fingered salute to the corner of the pub that contained the Sugar Ape clones.

Once outside Dan jogged to catch up with Jones who was striding purposefully in the direction of the flat. He slipped his arm back around his waist and pressed a kiss to the top of Jones' head.

"Was that for me or for them?" he asked casually.

"Neither," said Jones, looking up at him and squinting, "That was for  _me_."

The walked back home in silence, wrapped up in each other like one four legged creature. Jones rubbed his cheek against Dan's shoulder and clung to his arm with both hands.


	7. Voila mon passeport

"Will I mind the passports? I've got the money and the tickets, makes sense to keep them all together," Dan asked.

Jones tensed and looked over his shoulder at Dan sorting through a documents wallet.

"No that's alright, I've got mine," he mumbled and busied himself with putting some of his more obscure equipment in padded cases with copious 'fragile' stickers plastered over them.

Dan sighed and walked up to him, wrapping his arms around his arms around Jones' narrow waist and resting his head on his shoulder.

"Do you really need all this? You're only doing one gig, can't you use the house decks?"

Jones gave him a look of total disdain.

"Point taken," Dan said and kissed his neck.

Jones let himself relax into the petting as Dan's hands started to creep down his stomach to the waistband of his jeans. Suddenly, Dan grabbed his passport out of his pocket and was running to the next room before Jones realised what had happened.

"You wanker! You can't see it! I'm hideous in that photo!" he sprinted after Dan and leapt onto his back, trying to snatch the passport out of his hands.

Dan was giggling like a child and batting his hands away, trying to shake Jones off his back and get a look at the passport photo at the same time.

"What kind of a shallow bastard do you take me for? I'm not going to chuck you if you have a shit passport photo."

"You'll make fun of me, I hate that photo. They won't let me get a new one for another seven years! I tried to lose it accidentally-on-purpose in Stockholm so the embassy would give me a new one, but people kept picking it up and giving it back to me. The Swedes are such considerate bastards!"

Dan was in stitches in spite of Jones tugging at his hair and pinching his upper arms. He got the passport open and managed to get a quick look at it before Jones let out an ungodly shriek and twisted his body around violently so that they fell to the ground in a heap. Dan tried to wiggle away from Jones and hold him back with his left arm while he looked at the photo again.

"You look so sweet in this," he laughed, still holding Jones back one handed.

"I'm repulsive. Look how fat I am, I look like a post mortem of Elvis. And my eyes are all bloodshot and yuck," Jones said, screwing his face up in disgust.

"Yuck? Is that a technical term, dear?" Dan asked and poked him in the stomach.

"Just give it back, you bastard," Jones said, irritably blowing his fringe off his face.

"Oh all right then... Earnest."

"You're fucking dead."

*

Airports, Dan thought, were places where you rushed around frantically in order to wait for hours. It wasn't the delays that bothered him so much, it was these half arsed conspiracies that there was no delay. They should have been almost in Germany at this stage and their plane hadn't even arrived yet.

"I just want to know how long the delay is going to be?" he said wearily to a nervous girl, just out of school by the look of it, in a uniform.

"There hasn't been any word of a delay, sir," she said, "If you'd like to take a seat, we'll keep you abreast of any changes."

"I didn't ask what word there was, there clearly is a delay; we've been waiting here for three hours. My boyfriend has a gig tomorrow night and he needs to rest." He tried not to dwell on the fact that the first time he called Jones his boyfriend was to some uniformed adolescent.

"Any changes will be reported on the internal system," the girl-child said, clearly terrified.

Dan muttered an ironic 'thank you' and went back to the metal bench where Jones was kicking a bump in the lino. As soon as Dan had settled himself down he found himself with a lapful of sleepy DJ squirming around to get comfortable.

"This bench is killing me bum," he complained, "How long is the delay going to be?"

"There isn't one apparently," Dan said, self consciously holding Jones, "Anyone I ask seems to think I'm being absurd, suggesting that there is. 'Delay, what delay? I'm afraid you're mistaken, waiting around for hours after the scheduled departure is common procedure.' Twats."

"Give us a kiss, Dan," Jones said from Dan's shoulder.

"What now?" Dan looked around at the other bored passengers.

"G'wan, wanna kiss," Jones protested, pushing his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout.

"That little girl is looking at us," Dan indicated with a twitch of his head.

Jones looked over slightly at the small child bundled up in an adult's jacket against the cold.

"So?" he asked.

"It's weird, kissing you in front of someone's kid. I don't want to have to justify my deviant lifestyle to some little darling's 21 stone rugby playing white supremacist daddy."

"She's going to have to find out 'the gays' eventually." Jones was nuzzling him insistently and kissing along his chin.

Dan reluctantly gave him a brief peck on the lips. Jones whined and kissed him with soft sensuous lips. Dan kept his mouth firmly shut and pressed only the tiniest of kisses against Jones' mouth.

"You're absolutely no fun, you know," Jones huffed and put his head back on its spot on Dan's shoulder.

He kissed a bare piece of skin poking over Dan's collar and stroked his jaw with his thumb to soften the insult, though. The last thing he wanted was for Dan to think he didn't appreciate him trying his best. They sat like that for several minutes until Jones became aware of the little girl from before standing next to them, looking at them with the intensity unencumbered by any knowledge of tact that only the very young possess.

"'Ello," she said, taking her thumb out of her mouth and waving.  
"Hello," Jones said.

Beneath him Dan stiffened and looked like he was about to have a panic attack.

"Do you like ponies?" she asked very seriously in a thick French accent.

Jones blinked at smiled at her.

"Yeah, I like ponies," he said.

She put her little hand into the pocket of the too-big jacket she was wearing and produced a powder blue My Little Pony. One of the old G1 ones. 

"She's very pretty," Jones said politely and the little girl smiled, her cheeks dimpling.

"She belonged to  _ma maman_ ," she said sweetly.

Dan looked at the tiny female and cleared his throat nervously.

" _Ou est votre maman, ma petite puce?_ " he asked with a passable accent.

" _Avec Papa et mon oncle Gavin et-_ ,"she replied shyly. She looked around and clapped excitedly when she saw four people hurrying over to her. " _Ils sont ici!_ "

A tall woman scooped her up and started scolding her and hugging her in turn. The girl was chatting excitedly and pointing at Dan and Jones. The other woman, who was much shorter and had a sweet roundish face started thanking them over and over again, while the two men in the background stood with their hands clasped so hard that their knuckles had turned white.

"She was with us and then she was gone," the smaller woman was saying, wringing her hands, "I hope she was no trouble."

"We had a great time," Jones said, smiling with glee, "She was telling me about ponies."

The taller, blonde woman gave the little girl into the arms of one of the men (her father? Uncle Gavin?) and threw her arms around Dan and Jones, kissing them on both cheeks and thanking them in faltering English. Dan smiled awkwardly and replied to her in French, which prompted more kisses and hugs. Eventually, the group left with their little girl holding both of her mothers' hands, looking over her shoulder at Dan and Jones.

"Don't gloat," Dan said quietly, "She  _might_  have had white supremacist parents."

"I wasn't gloating," Jones said, still grinning like the cat who'd got the cream, "I haven't even mentioned the fact that her parents are a lesbian couple, her gay biological father and his boyfriend."

"Yeah well..."

"Why didn't you tell me you could speak French?" Jones interrupted, "I can't believe that you've been holding on to that one. Hey, can you talk dirty to me in French? Not now, obviously, but when we're having some 'private time'?"

"You couldn't tell the difference between me asking you where the library was and proper dirty talk," Dan said.

"That's the beauty of it, everything sounds like filth in French," Jones said excitedly.

"Ou est la bibliothèque?" Dan muttered into his ear, "Voila mon passeport."

"Oh god, I fucking love you, you slag," Jones whispered and then breathed in sharply.

Neither of them had ever used the 'l' word before, even in the when they were in the throes of passion. Dan looked at him with an unreadable expression.

"Did you mean that?" he asked softly.

"Calling you a slag? No," Jones gave a forced little laugh.

"You know what I mean," Dan said without a trace of humour in his voice.

"Yeah... I do," Jones admitted quietly.

Dan crushed him tightly against his chest and Jones felt a wet patch on the top of his head. 

"We've gone so soft," he laughed quietly, "Always sobbing like a pair of girls these days."

Dan gave him a watery smile and then he kissed him. In the middle of the crowded departures lounge, he kissed him without a hint of reservation. Nearby, a middle aged woman with a face like a poodle's arse tutted loudly and a man hurried past towing his two sons away to the other side of the room. They didn't notice them.

" _All passengers for flight 402 direct to Hamburg, please make your way to the boarding area._ "

They broke apart at the loud noise from the nearby speakers. Dan tensed up and grabbed Jones' hand anxiously.

"Jones, I'm afraid," he hissed urgently.

"Me too," Jones said squeezing his hand.

"No, I'm afraid of flying," Dan admitted with terror creeping into his voice.

Jones fought the terrible impulse to laugh. He knew instinctively that that would be the worst possible thing he could do. Instead he gave him a hug and a kiss on his stubbly cheek.

"Don't worry, I'm with you," he said.

"Thank you," Dan replied gruffly.

They smiled at each other uncertainly and made their way over to the boarding area.


	8. Mile High Club

There was a plastic tray digging into his knees and his legs were squashed up against the seat in front of him. This was of little consequence because in the next fifteen seconds he was going to die. On fire, screaming. The wings were metal. The entire plane was metal. People were chatting casually to avoid the awful reality of their imminent death and he was the only one strong enough to resist the comforting illusion of safety. They were all going to die. Poor bastards.

"I don't like this. I thought I could do it, but I can't," he said holding the armrests in a death grip.

Jones looked at him bemusedly.

"I wish you'd told me, I wouldn't have made you come," he said patting Dan's hand.

"I need to get off, I'm getting off now," Dan replied, fumbling with his seatbelt, "I'll see you back at the flat when you come home."

The plane started to inch its way down the runway and an air hostess (or whatever it was you called them now. Cabin crew. Not that it mattered because they were all going to die) told him off for unfastening his seatbelt. Dan screwed his eyes shut and grabbed Jones' hand tightly.

"Jones, if I die, I just want to say sorry for treating you like shit for so long. And stringing you along. And ignoring you. And-"

"Dan, shut up. We're not going to die," Jones said and squeezed his hand.

Dan let out a small, decidedly unmanly whine, just loud enough for Jones to hear. Jones rolled his eyes and leaned closer to Dan, putting his arms around him and whispering in his ear.

"What are you playing at confusing these poor people by subverting the stereotype? I'm supposed to be having hysterics and you're supposed to be comforting me like a big strong man."

Dan made a token attempt to shake him off, but allowed himself to be cuddled and petted by Jones while the plane tipped the world sideways and fell into the sky.

"That wasn't so bad." Jones' warm breath tickled his neck.

"Maybe not for you," he replied in a fierce mutter.

He felt a blanket covering them and looked over to see Jones smoothing it around himself, before slipping his hands underneath it. Within seconds there was a hand unbuttoning his trousers and fingers sneaking past the waistband of his underpants.

"What are you doing!" Dan whispered desperately.

Jones kissed his ear and whispered back softly, "You said you wanted to get off. Stop wriggling, you'll give the game away."

"Jones, this is neither the time or the place," Dan said weakly as his traitorous cock hardened in Jones' light grasp.

"Come on Dan, I always wanted to join the mile high club. And you need something to take your mind off things," Jones smiled evilly at him and brushed his thumb over the head.

Dan sucked in a breath through his teeth and looked murderously at Jones.

"If the plane crashes and they find my body like this, I'll die of shame," he said.

"Le petit mort," Jones said and twisted his wrist.

"I thought you couldn't speak French," Dan muttered into the seat.

"I can't, I just heard that somewhere. Pretty wicked though, the little death. S'what it's like," he replied.

His face was cradled against Dan's neck. To the outsider it would look like he was murmuring comfortingly into his ear, instead of nibbling and licking at the delicate skin of Dan's throat.

"You need to stop thinking," Jones went on against his throat, "You like that don't you?"

"Get a napkin or something," Dan said urgently.

Jones grabbed a wad of paper napkins and wanked Dan's pulsing cock into them furiously. Dan bit his lip and climaxed under the blanket. His mind went blissfully blank for a fraction of a second and then he was back and Jones was zipping him back into his jeans in a businesslike way and discretely putting the balled up tissues into his carry on luggage.

"That's disgusting," Dan muttered at him weakly.

"I'll throw it out later, I didn't want to upset that poor little thing when she was cleaning up," Jones nodded at the air hostess. Member of the Cabin Crew. 

"Thank you," said Dan with reluctance.

"You calmed down now?" Jones asked him.

"Yeah."

"Wanna blow me in the toilets?"

Dan rolled his eyes and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"I'll just be going to the loo then," he said and stalked off in the direction of the toilets.

Jones smiled and waited three minutes and twenty six seconds before following him.


End file.
